Taking requests for childhood dreams

Simply because I've devoted most of my life to the written word and its everlasting creative possibilities, this doesn't mean I always wanted to be a writer.

Not by a long shot.

Sitting here, fishing around in my knapsack of memories, I finally found "grocery store clerk" as my first career choice. That's it.

Somehow, I, the little kid, saw something appealing in the duties of the young man, distinguished by his crisp white apron, at our corner grocery — Amos, 21, swift. The ladies thought him adorable.

Next out of the knapsack: I'm seated in our living room driving a city bus. That's it. Quite possibly this occupation choice was impelled by the fact that I was able to fantasize the piano stool as my steering wheel.

Man, what a job, needling that big green baby, a double-decker, through thick traffic lanes, the bus crammed, all those humans beings in my care and command, and me ensconced in an over-sized seat calling out the names of upcoming streets.

Funny, never did I hanker to be a fireman or police officer like so many males in my social group. How about you? Remember what you wanted to be?

I can't say with assurance what the popular female career choice was at the time.

Then it was time for me to knuckle down. After all, I was already 11 and still floundering.

One cold evening Mom brought her old, encased violin out of the attic. For unknown reasons I, the middle son — possibly because of my lovely boy soprano voice — was chosen to master the instrument.

My life changed forever — as so many juveniles are wont to dramatically avow.

At first I felt distressingly miscast, until discerning that I'd never heard of an unemployed violinist or orchestra conductor.

Yes, quickly I had dreams of being another Leopold Stokowski — until viewing action shots of the leader with all that hair.

Till this day, though, I thank my mom for inculcating me with the love of beautiful music, whether classic or modern stuff.

I had my own little band. I wrote songs. I wrote plays. I wrote. I wrote. I was home, that's it, under a rainbow of an aura in which to live and write.

Last night, before trundling off to bed, I brushed my teeth. Finished, I tapped my toothbrush on the edge of the basin, and suddenly I was Leopold Hayes rapping my baton on the conductor's stand, clad in all-white formalwear, tie and tails, rather than pajamas and bathrobe.